Lucy
by sakuyavalentine
Summary: One-shot. Chris x Jill.


**Lucy**

.

"They said it'd bring some  
closure to say your name.  
I know I'd do it all different if I had the chance.  
But all I've got are these roses to give  
and they can't help me make amends."

- Skillet – _Lucy_

.

He wasn't sure how long he'd leaned out that window. Subconsciously, he balanced himself on his toes while supporting his weight on his hands until the veins in his forearms bulged. Around the window frame, large shards of glass protruded dangerously and it was only by reminding himself of Claire and why what had just happened happened that he was careful of them at all. And the cliff face was so steep, he couldn't see down properly without risking tumbling out himself.

But there he stayed, ignoring the ache in his muscles, or the thunder above that signalled a strong rain that soon beat down on him like small stones from above. The wind propelled the torrents in through the open window, soaking his clothing and pooling on the floor. The clouds that brought the rain had obscured the moon, and the mansion offered no lights on this side, making it impossible to see anything but darkness below. He could hear the angry roar of the ocean and the hiss as it crashed against the jagged rocks and towering cliff, but that was all.

He hadn't heard the sound of them drop and it had given him hope, before a quiet, malicious voice reminded him that the sky was a concert of thunder claps and raging winds and distant wolf howls and they had dropped stories below. Finally, he backed away from the window slowly. His whole body trembled and his heart beats felt more prominent in his chest. Deep, hollow thumps and shallow breaths revealed a fear far greater than any he had experienced in the face of T-virus infectees or Tyrants or any B.O.W. Umbrella and its legacy left behind.

"Oh God..." he whispered to himself, and his voice sounded raspy and foreign. His hands moved to his head, his fingers tangling in his dark, wet hair, clutching, biting back the desire to gouge out his eyes or his hair, something to erase the image of Jill – oh God Jill! - falling out the window with Wesker in her grasp.

In his terror, he didn't notice the leg of the splintered table Wesker had previously dragged him across. He banged his heel against the wood and stumbled, sliding on the rain-slicked marble steps and landed hard on his back, hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs and send stabs of pain through his skull. To his left, he stared at the horror-etched face of Ozwell E. Spencer.

He screamed then, screamed in fear and anger and despair and ended with hot tears in his eyes that he didn't even try to compose. Then, for the first time since he was a child, he cried. He cried as hard as the rain fell, holding nothing back. Laying on the floor, he clenched his hands into fists and punched the marble, feeling the bones in his knuckles splinter and break and not caring in the slightest. He growled as he cried, cursing God and the Devil and Wesker and Umbrella and the B.S.A.A. and Jill herself for trying to save him.

When he finally climbed to his feet, he picked up his discarded handgun and emptied the magazine into the remaining windows, listening to them tinkle as they shattered. When he'd used up every bullet, he threw it aside, kicked the table and slumped to his knees. He reached up weakly to his ear to contact HQ, wondering, and not really caring, if the rain had destroyed his gear.

"Jill's gone," he wept. "I...I don't know what to do. I need help."

"We're dispatching a team now," stated the voice on the other end; cool, calm, collected. "Remain where you are. Back-up is on the way."

Chris was exhausted and didn't know if it was because of everything they'd been through that night, or if his body had shut down with all his sorrow. He didn't know, and hadn't the time to think about it, because as soon as he cut the transmission, he swooned dizzily and fell, unconscious, to the floor, hoping that maybe, just maybe, when he woke up, he'd discover this was all just a very bad dream...

.

In the following weeks, after the search of the bodies had been called off, it was easy to see how many lives Jill Valentine had touched. Everyone from the American branch of the B.S.A.A. had shown up for the funeral. Former S.T.A.R.S. members were there as well, Barry and his family, and Leon Kennedy, who'd had to regrettably leave the service mid-way through when he was paged by his superiors. Chris saw Sherry Birkin and Carlos Oliveira and Rebecca Chambers of Bravo Team. He saw Jill's parents and people he'd never met – likely friends, family and friends of family who had known her when she was a child, before this nightmare started.

He sat through the service, numb, with Claire by his side, never letting go of his hand. There was something of support in her touch that stopped him from breaking down again and he was grateful to her for putting her own work on hold to be with him. He listened to the pastor speak and read from the Bible, wondering if, after everything that had happened, Jill even believed in God anymore. He listened with his eyes closed as her parents delivered a beautiful eulogy and as friends and colleagues took their turns saying what a wonderful person she had been, how brave and kind and selfless she had been and how she would be missed.

Chris refused to speak, knowing he would be unable to. How could he speak of Jill and do her, or his emotions, justice? How could he stand in front of all of the people who loved her, and tell them that he thought she was beautiful, when simply gazing in her direction left him breathless, like standing at the summit of Everest, seeing the entirety of the world during a pastel sunset? How could he tell them that she was courageous, when even he envied her bravery in the face of creatures that would strike death into the hearts of others? How could he tell them that he loved her when the word was like a dying candle compared to the wildfire that was his feelings for her?

They'd been partners, a bond that brought them closer even than lovers – or perhaps that was what they truly were. They had after all...that night...when he told her about his investigations in Europe... But it didn't matter. What mattered is that they had been as close as two people could be. He'd have died for her, given the chance, just as she'd died for him. He'd known everything about her; that her favourite colour was blue and that she preferred to wear her hair short, but had grown it out to look more feminine. He knew that she was an only child and joined S.T.A.R.S. because she'd lost a relative to foul play and wanted to ensure that never happened again to anyone else. He knew that when she'd first joined S.T.A.R.S., long before he had, she'd ironically had a crush on the very man that would be her demise. He knew how that night at Spencer's mansion had changed her, both for the better and for the worse and he knew her dreams: her desires for a better world, for a family, if she ever lived that long, and if this viral nightmare ever came to an end. He knew everything and with it, he'd come to respect, admire and care for her more deeply than anyone else in the world.

So how? How could he make it known in the limited capacity of the human tongue that no one, no one alive today or a hundred years from now, would ever love her or miss her as much as he did?

.

He was there the day they erected the granite headstone over the plot where no body lay. Hers was a grave among graves, no different than the field of others that seemed to stretch to all horizons, besides the name etched into her stone. The plaque, unlike many of the others, was still smooth and clear of chips or scratches. The engraving of her name and lifeline were clear, unworn by the passage of time. The stone was even still shiny.

Dropping to his knees, Chris brushed his fingers against the stone and traced the letters of her name with his thumb.

"I'm so sorry, Jill. I should have taken better care of you," he said to the silent grave. "I should have been a better partner. I should have been smarter and faster and stronger. I should have been able to stand up to Wesker, or else, it should have been me dragging him out that window."

He stopped himself. If she was here right now, she'd probably punch him for being so self-loathing and macho. She'd demand to know if he was truly sexist at heart, and thought that just because she was a girl she had to play damsel in distress while he got to be Superman. It would all be in jest, of course, and then she would wink and they would go for a couple of beers and she'd leave him with the bill just to teach him a lesson. And everything would be okay.

But she wasn't here. She wasn't here...and everything wasn't okay...

He reached for the grass beside him. Plastic wrap crinkled as he raised the bouquet of assorted flowers and held them up as though she could see. "I brought you flowers. I didn't know if you'd like them, but isn't that what people do when they want to make amends? Bring flowers?"

Slowly he stood and pulled one of the flowers, a rose, from the bouquet. He dropped the others, his fingers suddenly numb, to the ground. He examined the rose, counting and noting the deep redness of the soft petals. He cradled it delicately in his hands and then, suddenly, made a fist around it. When he opened his hand again, the blossom was crushed, the petals falling out of the stem like dried leaves on an autumn tree.

He wondered what he was doing, talking to a grave that didn't even mark the resting place of a body. Jill was likely at the bottom of the sea and she couldn't hear him.

But he was lost and there was just so much, he realized, that he wanted to say to her. So much he'd never said when she was alive and so much he thought would make thing easier by saying

Raising his hand to an oncoming wind, he watched the petals take flight and tumble through the air. He'd taken it all for granted – happiness and life. But these were delicate and fragile things and when they're lost, all that can be done is to say goodbye and remember what once was through the frozen pain of a wounded heart. He knew that one day he would have to move on, though at the moment such a concept was as foreign to him as giving birth. He didn't think he would ever be able to go back to the way he used to be, but he had to, and Jill would have said as much, if she could. There was still a world out there that needed saving, people who needed protecting, a legacy that needed living.

There was so much he wanted to say, but even as he opened his mouth, he discovered that his thoughts had gone blank. After a moment, his lips turned in what someone passing by might mistaken for smile, or a trick of the pale afternoon light.

"I never got the chance to tell you before, so I guess I'll say it now: You were the best partner anyone could have asked for and despite everything, I don't regret one minute of my life with you. I loved you, Jill Valentine and I'll miss you..." he whispered and let his words ride on the wind so that maybe somewhere, somehow, she could finally hear them.

.

**Disclaimer: **All _Resident Evil _characters are property of Capcom and their individual creators.

**Notes: **I know Jill's name is not Lucy. I was actually going to use this song to write an _Assassin's Creed _one-shot, but I didn't.

This fic is dedicated to 16FangsofWrath, though this is not the fic I was requested to write. This is my gift, because while I've seen tragedy in my life, but I can't imagine such a personal loss as he's experienced. You've been a very good friend these last few months and you and all your loved ones are in my heart and my prayers. God bless!


End file.
